


In Which Mrs. Hudson Interrupts

by thequeergiraffe



Series: The Spaces In-between [27]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Pre-Slash, spoilers for A Scandal, what John and Sherlock were up to in John's room
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-26
Updated: 2012-04-26
Packaged: 2017-11-04 09:04:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,069
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/392111
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thequeergiraffe/pseuds/thequeergiraffe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock falls asleep in John's bed; John accidentally falls asleep as well.<br/>------------<br/>(Can be read as a standalone.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Which Mrs. Hudson Interrupts

_John:_

Sherlock is sleeping.

_Actually_ sleeping.

I'd be pleased pink if it weren't for the minor issue of his sleeping in  _my_ ruddy bed. Oh, even that's not so bad, I suppose, until you figure in the fact that he's stretched out like a cat and definitely not wearing pyjamas. Is he wearing pants? I can't tell; he's all wrapped up in a sheet.  _My_ sheet. And unlike Sherlock I don't have Mycroft's personal assistants scuttling in to do my washing up once a week. That sheet is definitely going in  _his_ laundry bin, the prat.

All right. Now what? It's a cold morning and I only left my bed to nip down to the shops for some tea. Later I've got some things planned, tentatively (one can never truly plan, with a flatmate like Sherlock Holmes), but what I wanted now was a little lie down, maybe break out that novel I've been working on for ages or do a little writing up for my blog. I could go down to the sofa but it's cold down there, colder than up here anyway, and I really wanted to relax in my own bed-

"Oh, lie down already," Sherlock grumbles, not lifting his face from the mattress. "I can't sleep with you thinking so loudly."

"Maybe you should try sleeping in your own bed, then," I say, crossing my arms.

"My bed, cold. Your bed, warm."

Hard to argue the facts, and the man  _is_ a genius. I set my mug down on the bedside table and yawn. It should be awkward, I suppose, but this is Sherlock. I've gotten reasonably used to the lack of personal space and privacy. Scooping up my novel (hate working on my blog when Sherlock's around, he always corrects me or makes little disapproving sounds over my shoulder), I sit down on the edge of the bed and nudge him with my elbow. "Budge over."

Sherlock makes a noise that sounds like "hnng", but he does scoot infinitesimally closer to the right side of the bed so I consider it a victory. I swing my legs up, cross them at the ankles, and settle my back against the headboard. Yes, this is nice. Cozy, even. Nice mug of tea, a good book, the warmth of another person pressed against my leg-

Wait.

I move my book down and look at my legs as though needing verification. Well, consider it verifiable fact: Sherlock has shifted close enough to me that his back is resting against my leg. In fact, his curly head is settled against my hip and his ice cold feet are sliding along my (corduroy-clad) calves. "Christ!" I hiss as he tucks them up under my legs, frosty toes brushing the bare skin off my ankles. Cold bastard. I tap my elbow against his head and say, "Quit that; you're freezing."

"Mm," Sherlock hums in agreement, but he doesn't move. And…it's not so bad. His feet are warming up now, at least, and if I push them back into the cold they'll just worm their way back under again and I'll have to suffer anew. I huff a little breath so he knows I've put up  _some_ resistance to this little arrangement before turning my attention back to the book. Not bad, this. I'm something of a sci-fi junkie (which Sherlock detests, although I really do think I'm bringing him around on Doctor Who even if he does root for the bad guys more often than not) and this novel is satisfying enough. Maybe a little bit _wordy_. But not bad.

I reread the same paragraph four times before I realize I'm only half-awake. Sherlock is snoring softly (I don't even feel like they can be called snores, honestly- more like deep breaths) and my tea's gone cold and it's half eleven but there's nothing on so…

Compromise: I'll lie down fully, but I'll try to keep reading. Sounds fair. I shimmy down- Sherlock shifts, sighs, settles- and lie on my back, my ankles still crossed and the book settled on my stomach. Whether I intend to read more or not quickly becomes a moot point; almost as soon as my head hits the pillow, I'm asleep.

x

I wake up to an armful of sleeping consulting detective.

At some point I've turned on to my side and eased one of my arms under Sherlock's warm neck. My other arm is wrapped around his middle, hand tucked into the sheet and lying, loose-fingered, on the firm, bare flesh of his stomach. I'm pressed against him, face snuggled in dark curls.

As soon as I realize this I cry "oh!" and jump back, wrenching my arm out from under him. Sherlock makes little unhappy noises as I sit up, rubbing at my eyes, horrified.

"Sorry, sorry!" I insist as Sherlock turns and squints at me, his mouth pouted. "I fell asleep and…y'know…habit and all that. Sorry. Really, truly sorry."

"Idiot," Sherlock sighs. "I'm cold now."

I blink at him for a few moments, aware I look stupid and not caring. "I…uh, sorry?"

Sherlock makes a small, growly sound and sits up, wiping blearily at his face. "If you're having some sort of emotional crisis, can you have it somewhere else? I'm not quite fully awake yet."

Now I really look stupid; my mouth is opening and closing in a way that's surely reminiscent of a goldfish. "You…this…this is still my room, you know!"

"Wow, John, what a brilliant deduction," Sherlock drawls, his hand rummaging about in his unruly hair. "It's little wonder I keep you around."

"Now, look here-"

"Boys!" Mrs. Hudson shouts, and I'm struck by two sudden, independent thoughts:  _that doesn't sound good_ and  _oh god, she'll know we were both up here and Sherlock probably isn't even wearing pants and oh god oh god this is not good_. "You've got another one!"

"Oh, good." Sherlock eases off the bed and stretches, somehow maintaining his dignity and  _not_ losing his (my) sheet. "A case." He pads over to the doorway and opens the door before shooting me a questioning look. "Coming? Could be interesting."

I look down at my discarded book and the bed that's suddenly much too cold and sigh. "Right behind you," I say, and bugger it all: I follow him out, and I barely even consider tripping him on that damned sheet.


End file.
